Starfleet's Finest
by SitaT'eyla
Summary: How come these people are so damn crazy? Part 5 is up!
1. Doggy Style

Title: Starfleet's Finest

Authors: Sita/T'eyla

AN: This is pure sillyness, but it was a lot of fun to write. Hope you enjoy it, please read & review!

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Did you ever see a crew as disorganized and chaotic as the Enterprise crew?

I mean, did Captain Picard and Commander Riker ever fight about where they'd left their shuttle in the middle of a gunfight? Did Lieutenant Sulu ever lose his communicator on a pre- warp planet and went looking for it in the waste basket? Did Geordi LaForge ever manage to cloak his arm? Did Captain Janeway ever call Tuvok's parents to ask them about his favourite food? Did Lieutenant Worf ever go on an away mission and come back pregnant??

Don't think so. Somehow these kind of things seem to happen only to the crew of the Enterprise NX-01. We wondered why that would be, and came up with only one solution: It must be somehow related to their pasts, since after Freud everything that's wrong with you has something to do with your childhood.

Okay, so let's have a look...

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#1 Doggy Style

Impatiently, Jonny stared down the street, looking out for the bus. On most days he didn't mind waiting at the bus stop, since usually Steve Turner was with him and they would pass the time trading baseball cards, but today Steve hadn't been at school.

Finally he saw the bus turn around the corner and sighed in relief. Today he had to get home early, since he had overslept this morning and hadn't managed to sneak off to the basement to give Carlos his breakfast. He just hoped Carlos hadn't made too much of a racket. If his dad had gone down to the basement to see what the noise was about, there would be trouble at the mill when he came home.

The bus stopped and Jonny got in, taking a seat in the back. He took a quick look around and carefully opened his lunchbox, frowning at the sight. Today he had managed to grab most of the leftover meatloaf from lunch and stuff it into his schoolbag when no one was looking, but still he wasn't sure if it was enough. Carlos was getting bigger every day, and he ate about three times as much as he had only two weeks ago. Jonny didn't know where to get all the food from, since his dad always forgot to go shopping, and hardly ever bought any meat anyway. And every time Jonny went down to the basement, Carlos had broken something else. Last time he had even managed to destroy the housing of the old electric lawn mower and all the pillows and blanket Jonny had laid out on the concrete floor for him had been ripped and chewed up. Hiding a St Bernard in the basement wasn't as easy as he'd thought it would be.

Three weeks ago Steve had asked Jonny to come by after school, saying he had something to show him. Of course Jonny had been curious, and when he'd entered the Turner's living room seeing six little St Bernard puppies romping around on the carpet, he'd known he was doomed. Ever since Steve had told him Lady, his St Bernard, was pregnant, Jonny had racked his mind how to convince his dad to allow him to have one of the puppies. After Jackie had died three month ago dad had said he didn't want a new dog since Jonny was only nine, too young to take care of a dog on his own, and he himself didn't have the time to. This time it had been no use arguing with his dad, for a change, but Jonny had never intended to give up that easily. He had told Steve's parents it was ok with his dad if he took one of the puppies, knowing they weren't going to pursue the matter since they were glad to get rid of the dogs. Jonny had picked Carlos because he had that funny look and those big paws. He knew puppies with big paws grew up to be really huge dogs one day, and Jonny had always wanted a big dog. It hadn't been easy, but he had managed to take Carlos home safe and sound and had hidden him in the store room down in the basement. Fortunately, his dad hadn't noticed anything... but Jonny hadn't really thought he would. You couldn't expect a man who had once forgotten to change out of his pajamas before he left the house to notice his son hiding a twelve-week-old St Bernard puppy in the basement. Three days ago Carlos had knocked over a box filled with empty bottles making one hell of a noise, and Jonny had been sure this time his dad would go downstairs to see what was going on, but just that day the new test results of the warp five project had come in, and his dad wouldn't have left the lab even if the house had come down. But Jonny knew he wouldn't be able to keep Carlos in the basement much longer. There was simply not enough room for the dog to run around, and it started to smell down there, too. It seemed like he would have to tell his dad, after all.

The bus stopped at the driveway, and Jonny got off, feeling rather queasy as he walked towards the house. He opened the front door and frowned. A smell of something burning was coming from the kitchen, and smoke billowed through the hallway.

Not again, Jonny thought. He dropped his schoolbag onto the floor and dashed into the kitchen. On the stove there stood a saucepan, the water boiling over, sizzling as it evaporated on the hotplate, and a red-hot frying pan – that was where the smoke came from – with two black and shrivelled up sausages in it. Letting out an exasperated sigh, Jonny turned off the stove and, grabbing the oven gloves, he pulled first the saucepan, then the frying pan off the stove and put them into the sink. He turned on the tap, wrinkling his nose at the smell as the water hit the remains of the sausages, turning them into black lumpy pulp.

Yuck, Jonny thought, there goes supper.

He went to open the window, watching as the smoke cleared out. His stomach grumbled and he gave a sigh. Seemed like he would have to share the left-over meatloaf with Carlos if he wanted to have any supper today. He left the kitchen, and picking up his schoolbag he trudged up the stairs. Dropping off the bag at his room, he opened the door to his father's study and saw Henry Archer sitting at his desk, almost hidden behind stacks and stacks of padds, books and papers.

"Hi, Dad," he said. "I'm home."

His father didn't react, which was no surprise. Jonny cleared his throat.

"Hello, Daddy!" he repeated a little louder. Henry Archer looked up startled, then smiled at him.

"Hi, Jonny, I didn't hear you coming." He sniffed. "What's that funny smell?"

"Supper," Jonny said dryly and his father's eyes widened.

"Oh, shit!" He jumped up, causing several stacks of padds to topple over, and made a dash for the door. Quickly Jonny got out of the way.

"Dad! I already took care of it!"

"Oh." His father, who'd already been halfway down the stairs, stopped in his tracks. "What exactly was I trying to cook there anyway, it smells like two dead skunks!"

Jonny rolled his eyes. "No, Dad. It's only two dead sausages."

Henry wiped his chin and glanced up at Jonny a little sheepishly. "Sorry. I meant to stay in the kitchen anyway, but then I remembered I hadn't called Morris yet about the latest test results, so I went upstairs and... then I somehow got distracted."

"I bet."

"I'm really sorry." Henry sat down on the stairs. "Are you very hungry?" he asked, looking up at his son. Jonny shrugged.

"Kinda." He sat down beside his dad. "Did you remember to go shopping today?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. Just as he had expected, Henry shook his head.

"I totally forgot about that. Morris called me this morning and harped on for hours about the new lab restriction, I just couldn't get off the phone. He's right, though, the new restriction is absolutely pointless, we don't have enough lab time as it is, and now those mindless bureaucrats – "

"Dad, you didn't go shopping which means we don't have any food in the house. What are we going to have for supper?"

Henry Archer blinked. "Well, um... I don't know. Any macaroni and cheese in the freezer?"

Jonny sighed. "We ran out of those two weeks ago, Dad."

"Oh." Henry frowned. "But there has to be some food somewhere in the house. I think I remember buying some corned beef only a few days ago, it can't be all gone yet. Let's go and see if there's anything left."

He got up and walked down the stairs, heading towards the kitchen. Jonny followed him, feeling slightly worried. He remembered the corned beef, too; he had taken it down to the basement yesterday for Carlos' supper.

As he entered the kitchen, Henry looked up, closing the door of the fridge with a puzzled look on his face. "I know I bought that corned beef only two days ago. Did you eat it?"

Jonny tried to look innocent. "Dad, you know perfectly well I don't eat corned beef. Maybe you left it at the store after you bought it."

"Harhar." His dad opened the cupboard and started to rummage through its contents. "Seems like we've run out of cereal too."

Jonny went to the fridge and opened it. It was empty except for a packet of baloney and a big bottle of ketchup. He bent down to open the freezer, and sighed when he saw what was in there.

"Dad, you put the jam in the freezer again!"

"Oh no!" Henry came over, took a look at the freezer's contents and wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, grouse." He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. "Well son, we can either have frozen strawberry jam with cereal crumbs for supper, or we can call a pizza."

"Pizza," Jonny said emphatically. "I want cheese and pepperoni."

"Yessir." Henry got up. Picking up the pizza service menue that was lying on the counter, he walked over to the phone. 

"This is getting quite expensive," he muttered, frowning as he looked through the menue. Just that moment, the telephone rang. Henry picked up the receiver.

"Archer." He paused. "Ah, Morris! Did you get the new results yet?"

Jonny sighed. No supper today, he thought, turning around and heading for the stairs. At least he could get Carlos his dinner. He got his lunchbox from upstairs and, taking a quick look at his dad who was scribbling away on a notepadd and talking at the same time, he quietly opened the basement door and went down the stairs.

Heading for the store room in the back he already heard loud shuffling and scratching behind the door. As he opened the door, Carlos almost knocked him down, licking Jonny's face with his rough tongue, his big paws on Jonny's shoulders.

"Shh, Carlos, be quiet!" He pushed the dog back into the room, quickly closing the door behind him. Carlos, in the meantime, had discovered the lunchbox in Jonny's hand and was sniffing eagerly, his tail wagging like crazy.

"Alright, alright. Here you go, old boy." Jonny emptied the meatloaf onto the floor and, sitting down on one of the blankets, he watched Carlos as he gobbled down his supper.

He *is* getting quite big, he thought. And he's still only a puppy.

Steve had said that St Bernard dogs weren't fully grown until they were at least one and a half years old. And the bigger they got, the more they ate. Jonny watched Carlos, who was licking up the last few crumbs of meatloaf off the floor, sniffing around for more, and felt slightly guilty.

I've got to get him out of here, he thought. I'll have to tell dad after all.

Jonny picked up the lunchbox and, scraping together the rest of the meatloaf, he held out his hand.

"Here, I found you some more." Wagging his tail, Carlos came over, and the sorry remains of Jonny's school lunch were gone in no time. Absentmindedly, Jonny scratched Carlos behind the ears, and the dog buried his head in the crook of his arm.

"D'you think dad would notice if I just took you upstairs?"

Carlos looked up at him with big brown puppy eyes, wagging his tail. Jonny sighed.

"He probably would, wouldn't he? At least after a few days."

Carlos snuggled closer again and Jonny petted the dog's back, thinking. He couldn't possibly keep Carlos down here in the basement any longer. He bit his lip. Dad was going to kill him if he found out. After Jackie had died, he'd said they were absolutely not getting a new dog until Jonny was old enough to take care of it on his own. Jonny supposed there had to be other reasons as well since he'd taken care of Jackie pretty much on his own, too. But there was no way he'd let his dad take Carlos away. Dad had his warp engine, and he had his dog; it had always been that way. He looked down at Carlos, who'd fallen asleep next to him.

"Well, I'll just have to think of something," he said. Giving Carlos one last pat on the head he got up, heading for the door.

As he opened the basement door, his father was nowhere to be seen. The phone was gone as well and Jonny knew his dad was upstairs in his study, talking to Morris about the latest test results. Henry Archer was not going to call the pizza service today.

Jonny went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Checking every small compartment, he found three slices of cheese, half an onion and a strange-looking brown something which might have been a lemon once. After he'd gotten rid of the ancient lemon, Jonny lined up cheese, onion, ketchup and baloney on the kitchen table and frowned. Somehow it still didn't look like a decent supper. Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, he finally found a packet of bagels among the tupperware. They looked alright to Jonny, even though they were a little grey. Satisfied, he put them on the table with the other stuff, got a knife from the cutlery drawer and started to make sandwiches. The bagels were quite dry, so Jonny covered them generously in ketchup to drown the taste. Decorating each sandwich with an onion ring, he put them onto a plate and carried them up the stairs. As he opened the door of the study, his father just put the phone down. Henry's eyes were glued to the computer screen and he never noticed Jonny coming up beside his desk.

Jonny cleared his throat. "Hey, Dad. I fixed us some sandwiches, do you want one?"

"What?" Henry Archer turned his head, a confused look on his face. "Oh, thanks, Jonny."

Looking back at the screen he grabbed one of the bagels and took a bite, wiping off the ketchup which was running down his chin. Jonny sat down on the floor beside the desk, taking one of the sandwiches from the plate.

Should have brought a napkin, he thought as the ketchup dripped down onto the carpet. He watched his dad who was totally absorbed in his work. After a while Jonny spoke up again.

"You know what, we wrote a math quiz today."

His dad grunted, looking through a stack of padds.

"I think I got all the answers right, except the last one. That one wasn't easy."

"Uhu." One of the padds fell to the floor and his dad bent down, groping around for it under the desk.

"You had to multiply three fractions with real high numbers. I hate fractions."

"Good for you." His dad had retrieved the padd and put it back onto the stack. Jonny regarded him thoughtfully.

"I need money. Lots of money. Would you give some?"

His dad stared at the computer screen and frowned. "Sure Jonny."

"I'm going to rob the bank tomorrow."

Henry leafed through his notes. "That's nice."

Jonny took a deep breath. "I got a St Bernard in the basement. Can I keep him?"

His dad nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah sure."

"Thanks Dad." Picking up the plate with the remaining sandwiches, Jonny got up. He couldn't believe it, but it had worked. He left the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

Time to let you out of prison, Carlos, he thought heading down the stairs, a big grin on his face as he opened the basement door.

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Note: All you need is a good strategy.

Part #2 coming up soon...


	2. First Contact

Title: Starfleet's Finest

Authors: Sita/T'eyla

AN: Thanks to KaliedescopeCat, Exploded Pen and Nala for reviewing chapter 1. Here's Part #2, hope you enjoy it, please r&r!

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#2 First Contact

"... not to mention the latest export restrictions established by the High Council. Although the achievements of Earth's commercial policy are all the more remarkable considering the recent changes in the top positions of the Department of Commerce, we must not allow certain factions to realize their plans of spending the budget on new technologies only. The tendency of Earth's government to focus their political efforts on one economic field only, influenced by the certainly less than objective coverage of this subject in the media, will prove fatal one day when Earth decides to enter into extended negotiations with other worlds and species. However, Vulcan's government has launched a campaign to..."

T'Pol shifted in her chair. This had been going on for hours, and she was bored. She hadn't wanted to accompany her father to his meeting with the human ambassador, but since there was no day care or anything similar on the spacestation where the negotiations took place she had to sit through every single meeting her father had to attend. Six hours a day, forty-two hours a week. Her father had given her some math problems to solve while he was in the meeting but she had been done with them after less than one hour, and now she had nothing to do but listen to her father and Ambassador Harris drone on about Earth's economics. She wished she could have stayed at home with her mother, but of course her mother was on a business trip to ShanaiKahr at the moment, and couldn't possibly take her five-year-old daughter along with her. Well, her father couldn't really, either, but *someone* had to, and her mother had won the argument, as usual.

".. and so, since the secondary sector has even expanded in the last ten years, I strongly recommend revising the latest amendments to the International Trade Agreements."

T'Pol saw her father pause for a second to take a breath and pounced.

"Father, I need to use the bathroom."

Solkar turned his head, giving her a distracted glance. "You may go, daughter."

T'Pol saw Ambassador Harris hiding a grin and frowned. "But I do not know where it is."

Mildly irritated, Solkar raised an eyebrow. "Follow the signs, then."

T'Pol crossed her arms in front of her chest. "But I am hungry, too."

Harris snorted and Solkar glared at him. "Daughter, I must ask you to leave now."

T'Pol opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it again when her father gave her a piercing look. She knew it was better to go now. As she left the room she heard the human ambassador chuckle.

"Cute kid, your little missy, Solkar."

T'Pol didn't know what a "missy" was, but she knew she was neither cute nor little. She hadn't met many humans yet, but had gained the impression that they could be quite annoying. What was so funny about someone not knowing where the toilet was, anyway? As she walked down the hallways, she looked out for the signs her father had mentioned. There were none. T'Pol had never been to this section of the station before, and since these corridors looked very much alike, she didn't really know where she was going. After a few turns, however, she found herself in front of a restroom door and sighed in relief.

As she left the bathroom a few minutes later she felt much better. This had been quite urgent, and moreover, she had been able to escape from the meeting. For a moment T'Pol stood in the middle of the corridor, not quite knowing what to do now. There were not many people on the spacestation, and the corridors of this section were deserted. Coming to a decision, T'Pol turned left and walked down the hallway. Maybe she could find some kind of lounge where she could stay until her father came back from the meeting. At the end of the hallway there was a big door to the right. She opened it and found herself in an empty conference room similar to the one where the meeting took place. A second later she heard a loud crash and realized the room wasn't empty, after all. She turned to her right where the noise had come from and saw a human boy, about eight years old, standing there with some kind of club in his hand. Apparently he had used the club to hit a ball, sending it flying through the room and had just now managed to smash one of the potted plants with it. He stared at her with a surprised expression on his face.

"Who're you?" he asked. T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"I am T'Pol. You have damaged the furniture."

The boy cast a nervous glance at the remains of the plant. "You won't tell on me, will you?"

T'Pol raised another eyebrow. "What were you doing?"

He grinned. "Well, what does it look like? Target practice on potted plants, of course."

T'Pol stared at him and he rolled his eyes. "Well, I got a baseball bat, I got a baseball glove and I got a ball. Looks like I'm playing baseball."

T'Pol frowned. "What is baseball?"

He looked at her with disbelief on his face. "You don't know baseball?"

"No."

He shook his head. "It's a sport. A ball game."

"Does the game involve destroying your surroundings?"

He grimaced. "Look, I didn't do it on purpose."

"Throwing objects in closed rooms will eventually lead to damage," T'Pol said. She didn't really know what to make of this strange encounter, but somehow that boy was getting under her skin. The feeling seemed to be mutual; his voice sounded quite irritated as he answered.

"Look here, Miss I'm-So-Stuffed-With-Brains-I-Have-To-Plug-My-Ears-To-Keep-It-From-Running-Out, I don't need any little girls telling me how to play baseball. And especially no Vulcan little girls!"

T'Pol folded her arms in front of her chest. "I am not little. And there is nothing running out of my ears."

The boy walked over to the plant and picked up a ball from between the debris. "Have you always been like that or did you take lessons?"

T'Pol glanced at him disdainfully as he polished the baseball with his shirt. "Like what?"

"Like a pain in the ass!"

"Maybe you should seek medical help."

The boy's cheeks flushed with anger. "Are you saying I'm crazy? Maybe you need to see a doctor too, lady!"

T'Pol was getting the impression they were talking two completely different languages. "What are you talking about?"

The boy put ball and bat down on the table, placing his hands on his hips. "I don't know what it is with you Vulcans. Ain't I talking English or what?"

T'Pol still didn't know what he was referring to, and tried a safer approach. "Who are you?"

The boy shrugged, apparently quite annoyed. "What's it to you, smart ass?"

"I told you my name, so you might as well tell me yours."

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay. I'm Dave Harris."

"Ambassador Harris' son?"

"Right. You got a problem with that?"

She frowned. "Why should I?"

"Because you look like someone stuffed a lemon up your ass. But come to think of it, all Vulcans do. How come you know my dad, anyway?"

T'Pol didn't really know what to make of the odd statement, but she could tell it was meant to be less than friendly. She began to feel offended, wondering what she'd done to deserve such treatment.

"I am the daughter of Solkar."

"Who the hell is that?"

She gave him a contemptuous look. "My father and your father are currently discussing the new Trade Agreements your people have established. Are you not informed about your father's business?"

"No, and I don't want to be, either. My dad always drags me along on these diplomatic missions, and I hate it! I hate to be on these rotten spacestations together with those stinking aliens – "

T'Pol took a deep breath. "If I were you, I would refrain from accusing others of emitting unpleasant odours."

Dave stared at her, his fists clenched. "Are you saying I smell?!"

"Yes."

With a roar, he ran towards her. T'Pol's martial arts training kicked in and a second later Dave was lying flat on his back, staring up at her with a dumbfounded expression on his face. Then he jumped up again, his eyes blazing with fury.

"You little - " He advanced on her, and T'Pol took a step backwards, bumping into the table.

"I am not little," she said defiantly, and he went for her. She tried to throw him off again, but this time he grabbed her arms, and they fell to the ground, taking a few chairs with them.

"I'm gonna kill you!" he gasped, trying to get hold of her hair. T'Pol grabbed his arm, twisting his wrist. "I trust not," she panted, and then howled with pain as he bit her shoulder.

"You will pay for this, human!" she hissed, driving her knee into his stomach. He turned rather green in the face, but that didn't keep him from finally grabbing her hair and pulling out a good handful. The pain washed away the last few remaining bits of control, and a moment later they rolled over the floor, punching, kicking, screaming insults at each other.

"T'POL!"

"DAVID!!"

T'Pol who had just raised her fist to deliver another blow into David's midrift froze in midaction, staring at Dave whose stunned expression mirrored her own. She felt a hand grab her shoulder and pull her off the human boy she'd had pinned to the floor.

"What are you doing, daughter?" Her father's voice sounded shocked, and his expression betrayed barely controlled fury. T'Pol swallowed.

"He started it," she said, pointing at Dave. In the meantime Ambassador Harris had helped his son to his feet and was now talking to him with a very serious expression on his face.

"...what on earth were you thinking, picking a fight with a little girl, for God's sake!"

T'Pol turned her head. "I am not little," she said, and her father's grip on her arm tightened.

"T'Pol! You will apologize for this behaviour."

"She kicked me in the stomach!" Dave wailed. "Twice!!"

"I'm sure you did your share of kicking, too," Harris said, and to T'Pol's astonishment he bit his lip to hide a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Trying to keep a stern expression he looked down at his son. "Go on, say sorry to T'Pol."

"No I won't! She-"

Ambassador Harris took him by the arm. "Oh yes you will."

Dave glared at her, but all the same he grumbled, "Sorry."

T'Pol felt her father's hand between her shoulderblades, pushing her forward. "I apologize," she said with as much dignity as she could muster in her dishevelled state. Solkar stepped forward.

"I am deeply sorry for the behaviour of my daughter, Ambassador Harris. I assure you, she will receive an appropriate punishment."

T'Pol felt a twinge of unease and saw Dave stick out his tongue at her. Ambassador Harris cleared his throat. "I'm sure this wasn't T'Pol's fault, Solkar. I'm the one who has to apologize and you have my word David will have to face the consequences of his actions as well."

Dave swallowed and T'Pol raised an eyebrow. Ambassador Harris apologized again, and, grabbing his son by the arm, he left the conference room. A moment before the door closed behind them, she could her Harris' voice.

"...I told you not to get in trouble! What were you doing in there anyway? And what about that potted plant?"

Apprehensively, T'Pol looked up at her father whose face was expressionless as ever, but for an angry glitter in his eyes. 

"I am very disappointed in you, T'Pol," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "The behaviour you displayed was unworthy of a Vulcan. Follow me to the quarters where we can discuss this in greater detail."

He turned striding towards the door and T'Pol followed him, a feeling of dread forming in her stomach. She knew there would be a long lecture on the importance of staying calm and controlled at all times, and at least three weeks of extra meditations. Thinking of how Dave had stuck out his tongue at her, she felt anger rise in her again. She couldn't see why her father had chosen a career in which he had to deal with humans on a regular basis. Deciding she herself would never make that mistake, T'Pol followed her father down the hallway to their quarters.

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Note: Never mess with a Vulcan lady.

Part #3 to come soon...


	3. Sharpshooter

Title: Starfleet's Finest

Authors: Sita/T'eyla

AN: Thanks to Nala, KaliedescopeCat, and The Libran Iniquity for reviewing Chapter 2. Here's the next one, hope you like it! ;-)

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#3 Sharpshooter

"Students, I have to make an announcement. Last night somebody..." The headmaster let his eyes wander over the crowd of students. The assembly hall was utterly still.

"... somebody violated the School Rules in a way I would never even have thought possible. One of the students apparently left the building at night and launched some kind of... missile on the school grounds, smashing a window and causing an explosion in *my office*."

A few students giggled, and Mr. Clifton sent a piercing look in their direction. Immediately they fell silent again.

"The damage amounts to over £500 and I can assure you, we will find out who is responsible for this."

Until now, Malcolm had thought he was doing quite good, but as he watched Mr. Clifton pacing to and fro on the podium, his face getting redder and redder, his voice sounding more dangerous than ever, he suddenly felt like he was going to be sick any moment. He closed his eyes, praying he wouldn't really throw up in front of everybody. Maybe, maybe nobody would notice the sweat running down his face and the shaking of his hands as he stood amidst the other pupils, trying to look as innocent as everyone else.

He knew exactly who it had been, who had launched the explosive missile on the school grounds, causing £500 worth of damage in the headmaster's office. But he hadn't done it on purpose. Really, he hadn't.

Malcolm looked at the luminous figures of his alarm clock, pushed the covers aside and sat up. It was now 0100 hours and judging from the snores and even breathing coming from the other boys, his roommates were finally asleep. He'd been afraid he might doze off before he had the chance to put his plan into action, but actually it had been quite easy to stay awake. He was far too excited to fall asleep tonight. Tonight was The Night.

Quietly so as not to wake the other boys he got up and carefully lifted the mattress at the foot of his bed. Groping around he finally felt a cylindrical form brush against his fingertips and closed his hand around it, careful not to rip off the fuse as he pulled it out from under the mattress. He sat down on his bed and in the dim light coming from the alarm clock's display he examined it one more time. His Improved Fabulous Firespewing Fourteen-Inch Flash Rocket. It was lovely.

He'd been working on it for three weeks now, and although the rooms of the first-graders were being checked every week by the teachers, to his immense relief they had never found it. In every minute of his spare time he had poked it, prodded it, taking it apart and putting it back together again, thinking up new ways of improving it by adding new interesting mixtures of explosives he had pinched from the chemistry lab. He had even used some of the firecrackers from his collection, scraping out the powder and stuffing it into the rocket as well. Now, after three weeks, it finally met his standards of a Fabulous Firespewing Fourteen-Inch Flash Rocket, and was ready to be launched. Of course he couldn't possibly launch it during day time, because then he would be expelled faster than you could say "unauthorized possession of explosive missiles". But that was okay with him; at night the explosion would be even more impressive.

As he sneaked out of his room, heading down the corridor, suddenly a floorboard creaked under his bare foot. He jumped, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder, but everything remained silent. Quickly and silently he ran down the stairs and finally opened the door of the first floor bathroom. He knew they always left the window open at night and as he carefully turned the handle, the window opened easily enough. Climbing onto the windowsill, he cradled his Fabulous Flash Rocket in his arms and jumped. He landed on the wet grass and stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself in the last moment. Shivering in the cold air of the night he made his way across the lawn, heading for the sports grounds. 

It was probably best to launch the rocket on the soccer field, because there weren't as many trees which could catch fire if something went wrong. Of course that wouldn't happen, but better to be safe than sorry. After weeks of planning and thinking, revising his plans again and again, he had come to the conclusion that it was best to proceed in the following order: 

#1 On the day before The Night, hide a suitable stick (about twenty inches long, not too thick), a ball of string and a pair of scissors under the bushes next to the trashcans.

#2 DON'T FALL ASLEEP!!

#3 When leaving the room, don't forget to take a book of matches with you. Or better two.

#4 Leave the bathroom window open wide enough so you can easily get back inside.

Up to now, everything had worked out just fine. He found the plastic bag with the stick and the string and took it over to the middle of the soccer field, the spot he had picked as his Fabulous Firespewing Fourteen-Inch Flash Rocket Launching Site. Cutting off a piece of string, he tied the rocket to the stick and checked whether the knots were tight enough. Then he rammed the stick into the muddy ground, careful to drive it in deep enough so it wouldn't fall over. He stepped back, examining his handiwork. Steps #5 (Get your equipment) and #6 (Prepare the FFFIF-Rocket) were done, and now he could finally proceed to Step #7: Light the fuse.

He reached into his pajama pocket and got out the book of matches he'd brought with him (Step #3). Ceremoniously he struck one of the matches and a small flame appeared.

Anybody looking out the back windows right now will see you for sure.

The thought flashed through his mind and not for the first time he wished he had an Invisibility Cloak just like Harry Potter. That would certainly come in handy sometimes.

Dismissing the distracting thought, he took a step towards the rocket and with a hand which was shaking just the tiniest bit, he lit the fuse.

Mesmerized by the short string catching fire he remembered just in time Step #8: RUN!!!

When he had reached a safe distance, he turned around. Just that moment the Fabulous Firespewing Fourteen-Inch Flash Rocket took off with one hell of a bang, leaving a huge cloud of dust and smoke behind. Feeling an excited thrill, he watched the rocket gaining height. As it kept ascending, spurting jolts of fire, he couldn't help but grin. He had never thought it would go *that* high.

Suddenly, however, the rocket changed it's course, and when Malcolm saw where it was going, he felt as if all his insides had disappeared at once. The rocket was descending in a graceful arc, aiming directly for the school building. Malcolm clutched his face in terror as the Fabulous Firespewing Fourteen-Inch Flash Rocket kept whizzing on, getting closer and closer to one of the upper floor windows.

No, he thought, no no no no no no no – SMASH! The rocket went through the window, smashing it and showering the yard with thousands of tiny glass shards. For a moment there was silence. Then there was a bang as the rocket exploded just like he had planned, only that the explosion was a ten times more spectacular than he had ever imagined in his wildest dreams. Bolts of light, red, green, yellow, pink and blue, flashed up, crackling, banging and fizzing, and Malcolm remembered the bunch of firecrackers he had stuffed into the top of the rocket. He stood paralyzed, taking in the most horrible and most wonderful sight of his Fabulous Firespewing Fourteen-Inch Flash Rocket exploding in the headmaster's office.

All of a sudden, lights went on in most of the rooms and Malcolm could hear confused voices shrieking and shouting. Startled out of his trance, he remembered Step #9 of his plan: Get away before anyone comes to see what the noise is about. Taking one last look at the smoke billowing out of the headmaster's office window he turned around and ran.

"... and I assure you, when we've found out who is responsible for this, I will make sure he will never set a foot into this school again!"

Mr. Clifton sent a deadly glare across the crowd and Malcolm felt his insides contract. Step #10 "Get expelled and killed by your father" had never been part of his plan, and he didn't want it to be, either. His roommates hadn't noticed he'd been away; they had been standing in the corridor when he'd returned, looking what the noise was about. He'd told them he'd gone to the bathroom, and he was quite sure nobody else could have seen him as he had sneaked back inside, but still he expected the headmaster to call him up front any moment. Mr. Clifton, however, seemed to have finished. Stepping down from the podium, he gave a short, angry wave of his hand.

"Dismissed."

The students filed out of the room and Malcolm slunk up the stairs behind his classmates. He couldn't believe his luck. Maybe they would never find out, after all. He thought of the fantastic explosion he'd been able to conjure and smiled a little. The rocket had crossed the distance all the way from the soccer field to the headmaster's office window. That had to be at least 120 yards, maybe more. He considered. If he bought the Stupendous Sparkspurting Seventeen-Inch Star Rocket and improved it a little, maybe he could make it go over 200 yards.

With this happy prospect in mind, he followed the other boys into the classroom.

____

Note: You aim, you shoot, you run.

Part #4 coming up soon...


	4. On The Road Again

Title: Starfleet's Finest

Authors: Sita/T'eyla

AN: Thanks to Exploded Pen, Kaliedescope Cat, Nala and The Libran Iniquity for reviewing Chapter 3. Here's Chapter 4, this time it's Trip ( the Master of Disaster *g* ). Hope you enjoy it, please R&R!

#4 On The Road Again

"Charlie!"

Charles Tucker III heard the voice of his little sister calling him and turned around. He saw Lizzy coming towards the swings and quickly stuffed the packet of biscuits into his pocket, swallowing the one he'd been munching on. Knowing Lizzy the cookies would be gone in no time if she got hold of them. She sat down on the swing beside him, digging her toes into the sand as she looked up at her nine-year-old brother.

"You got crumbs all over your pants. What're you eatin'?"

He wiped off the cookie crumbs, trying to look innocent. "Oh, nothin'. Where've you been all day long, I never saw you."

Lizzy rolled her eyes. "Mom made me come with her to visit Grandma. She wanted you to come too, but she couldn't find you."

"Thank God she didn't." Charlie wasn't sorry he'd missed that visit. He liked Grandma, but it was terribly boring, having to sit still for hours at a time, listening to her and Mom gossiping about everyone in the neighbourhood. But come to think of it, it was quite boring here as well. It was the first week of summer vacation, and all of his friends had gone on holiday with their families. Brad was in California at the moment, visiting with his cousins, and Mike had gone to Italy with his family. Only he'd had to stay at home again, of course, stuck on that stupid farm with nothing to do but hiding from his dad when he came up with new chores. Charlie didn't intend to spend his summer holidays hoeing and cleaning out the barn.

Lizzy began to jump up and down on the swing, kicking up sand.

"I'm bored," she said in a voice Charlie knew only too well. It was her Go-On-And-Do-Something-About-It-voice. And most of the times it was better not to ignore it, since it usually meant trouble if he didn't do what she wanted. Well, most of the time there was even more trouble (for him, at least) if he did, but at the moment a little bit of trouble was just what he needed. Anything was better than another hour of sitting around with nothing to do.

He got up from the swing. "Well, what wouldcha like to do?"

Lizzy pulled a face. "Dunno. You think of somethin'."

He considered. "What about goin' down to the lake?"

"Nah, it's too hot."

"Or we could go inside an' watch that new movie I got for ma birthday?"

She shook her head. "That's boring, too. An' I think the TV's broken, anyway, it keeps makin' those strange noises when you try to switch the channels."

Charlie remembered how he had taken the lid off the back of the TV only a few days ago because he'd wanted to see how the whole thing worked. After a few minutes of poking around in the TV's insides with an old screwdriver he had managed to loosen some kind of cable. A shower of sparks had erupted and he had burned himself quite badly as he'd tried (and failed) to repair the damage. Nervously he cleared his throat.

"Well, I don' think Mom would let us watch TV now, anyway."

Lizzy gave him a long look, letting him know she saw right through him, but wasn't going to say anything about it. There was still the possibility of telling on him, of course, if he didn't think of some way to entertain her soon. Charlie looked around, and his eyes fell on the old truck standing in front of the garage, it's newly painted hood glistening in the sunlight.

"What about goin' for a ride?"

Lizzy grimaced. "Harhar. You're still too young to drive a car. And you ain't got a *license*, either."

He shrugged, trying to sound as if he couldn't see what her problem was. "So what? Doesn't mean I can't drive a car. I've done it a hundred times before."

"You didn't! And anyway, there's no way dad'll give you the keys! Remember what happened the time you just took them an' – "

"That was an accident," he interrupted quickly. "And it was over a year ago. I'm much older now."

"Still, he's not gonna give you the keys! And you'll be in so much trouble if you pinch them again – "

"I don't need the keys." An idea had formed in his head and he grinned down at his little sister who raised an eyebrow, sceptically.

"Well, how're you gonna start the car, then?"

"I'm gonna hot-wire it."

Lizzy frowned. "What's that mean, 'hot-wire'?"

"It means startin' a car without usin' the keys."

"You can't!"

"Yes I can. I saw a documentary about car thieves on TV, an' they did it all the time. It's easy."

Charlie got up from the swing, giving the truck a short look-over before he turned back to Lizzy. "Shouldn't take more than ten minutes," he said casually. "Lemme get my tools an' I'll see what I can do."

Lizzy followed him as he got his tool kit from the shed.

"Car thieves?!" she said, hurrying to catch up with him as he crossed the yard and came to stand beside the truck. "You're gonna get in so much trouble, Charlie!"

He opened the door of the car and climbed inside, sitting down behind the steering wheel. Opening his kit, he began to spread out the tools on the passenger seat. Lizzy was still standing in front of the door, hands on her hips.

"You can't do this. Dad'll kill you!"

He looked up. "He'll never notice. I told you, it's easy. So, d'you wanna go for a ride or not?"

Lizzy could be a terrible little snitch, but she was never one to chicken out. She knew she'd been challenged, and without another word she climbed onto the back seat, leaning forward to see what he was doing. Charlie tried to remember what exactly the guy on TV had done after he'd pulled out all those wires and cables. It had seemed easy enough, at the time, but somehow the wires looked very much alike and he didn't know which ones exactly he had to use to short-circuit the whole thing.

Why don't they repeat things like that in slow motion, he thought, poking around in the insides of the truck's dashboard.

"I told you you can't do it!" Lizzy sounded quite satisfied, if maybe a little disappointed. "You can't start a car without – "

Sparks flew, the car gave a strangled sound and Charlie, completely taken by surprise, slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The truck gave a lurch forwards, Lizzy screamed and grabbed Charlie's shoulder from behind.

"Stop it!"

"I can't!" he yelled, frantically turning the steering wheel. "Somethin' got stuck!"

Narrowly missing the garage door, the truck sped onto the yard, aiming for the old wooden shed where they kept the firewood. Charlie panicked, letting go of the steering wheel and grabbing the parking brake with both hands, but it was too late. They crashed into the shed, Lizzy screamed and something heavy came down on the windshield and smashed it, showering them with tiny bits of broken glass. The engine gave a last rattling sound and died.

Suddenly everything was very quiet and dark, the wooden walls of the shed which had come down on them blocking out the light almost completely. For a moment they sat paralyzed, staring at the roof of the shed which was now lying across the windshield, it's brittle boards splintered and broken.

Lizzy was the first one to speak.

"You're gonna get in trouble. You wrecked the shed *and* you wrecked the car. Oh man, you're gonna get in sooo much trouble."

Charlie let his his eyes wander over the glass splinters spattered all over the dashboard. He couldn't believe his life had gone down the drain in only five minutes.

"This time dad's gonna hit you," Lizzy said with immense satisfaction, leaning back in her seat.

"Shut up, Lizzy," he murmured, knowing she was probably right. Gingerly he reached through the broken windshield and poked at the remains of the wooden roof. Something creaked and there was a loud crash as some of the boards shifted and fell to the ground. Immediately he pulled his hand back.

"CHARLES!"

Charlie heard the boards being pushed aside and in the next moment there was his dad, out of breath and panting, staring at him through the side window, shock written all over his face.

"Oh my God! What happened?"

Pushing aside a few boards that were in the way he yanked open the door of the truck and grabbed Charlie by the arm.

"Are you hurt?"

Charlie swallowed and shook his head, unable to speak. Lizzy, on the other hand, seemed to have no such problems.

"I bumped my knee."

Startled, his dad turned his head. "Lizzy! You're in there too?"

He looked back at Charlie, his eyes narrowing to slits. "What the hell - "

Then his eyes fell on the wires sticking out from under the steering wheel and his face went crimson.

"You – you – you HOT-WIRED the car?! Have you completely lost your mind?!!"

Before Charlie could answer, his dad had pulled him out of the truck, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him like mad.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKIN', HOT-WIRIN' THE CAR, YOU COULD BOTH HAVE DIED, YOU-"

"I *told* him not to do it, but he wouldn't listen." Lizzy had climbed out of the remains of the car and stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, a smug smile on her lips.

His dad let go of him and turned around. The old shed had caved in completely, covering most of the truck with boards and wooden splinters. Apart from the busted windshield the car had dents everywhere and the newly painted hood was all scratched and bent. It was a horrible sight. Charles Tucker II gave a strange sound, something between a strangled cry and a sob.

"My car! You wrecked my car! Again!!"

He turned back and Charlie could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. Automatically he took a step backward, but his dad had already grabbed him by the arm and was dragging him towards the house.

"What in the name of God were you THINKIN', you coulda killed YOURSELF, you coulda killed your SISTER, where did you learn to hot-wire a car ANYWAY-"

They had reached the front porch, and Charlie stumbled up the few steps after his dad. He heard him yelling and screaming, but he couldn't make sense of what he was saying. He was in shock. There was only one thought in his mind, drowning out everything else.

'He's gonna kill me. I wrecked the car again. He's gonna kill me.'

They went inside and up the stairs, and when they reached Charlie's room, his dad yanked the door open and shoved him inside.

"I'm gonna go outside now and see if there's anything left I can save and when I'm done, we're gonna have a LONG TALK about this! You stay here and don't you DARE move a muscle!!"

The door slammed shut, and Charlie stood in the middle of his room. Lizzy had been right; now he was definitely in *very* much trouble.

"...and for the next week, you're stayin' in here. You're not goin' outside to play, you're not watchin' TV, you're not doin' anything except thinkin' about what you did today and why you're never gonna do this again. Do we have an understandin' here?"

Charlie shrank back from his dad's deadly glare and sniffled.

"Yes, Dad."

"Very good." His dad pressed his lips together and stared at him. Charlie shuffled his feet uneasily.

"What is it with you?" his dad asked at last. Charlie blinked and carefully looked up, meeting his father's eyes. His dad frowned.

"I mean, all little boys get in trouble from time to time, that's natural. But you... you broke the car twice already, and you're not even sixteen yet! Not to mention the shed. And that other time, when you did that with the old flagpole and the toilet paper... "

His dad trailed off, and Charlie looked down at his feet again. After a moment his dad gave a sigh.

"Never mind, forget it. You're not leavin' this room today, except for supper, and then you're goin' straight to bed. And any nonsense from you in the next few weeks, and there's gonna be the trouble of your life, you hear me?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes, Dad."

"Good." With a last stern look in his direction, his dad opened the door and left his room. Charlie slumped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling very sorry for himself. Why were they all acting as if he'd murdered someone or burned down the house? All he had wanted to do was having a good time! What was the big deal? His dad had been talking about pulling down the shed for ages, anyway. Charlie rolled onto his stomach, listlessly picking up a comic book from the nightstand. He'd been reading for a few minutes when the door opened again and Lizzy came in.

"Get lost," he grumbled, deliberately turning his back on her, but of course she wouldn't listen. Walking up to his bed, she came to stand beside him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"See?" she said, sounding exactly like his mom. "I knew he was gonna hit you!"

Charlie blushed. "Shut up, Lizzy!"

She sat down on the bed. "I'd never thought you really could do it. Hot-wire a care, I mean."

"I told you, it's easy." He put the comic book aside and sat up. "There're people who can do it in less than twenty seconds."

"I don't think it took you much longer." She smiled at him, obviously determined to get back in his good graces. "You know, I think it *was* pretty cool when that shed came down. Just like that movie we saw last week."

"And that truck was an old rustbucket anyway." He felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. For a while they sat in silence, then he picked up his comic book again.

After a few minutes Lizzy spoke up again.

"Charlie..."

He looked up and saw an all-too-familiar glint in her eyes.

"You know what?"

"What?"

An evil grin began to spread over her face. "I'm bored."

____

Note: There's no cure for what we call the 'Tucker-Syndrome'.

Part #5 coming up soon...


	5. Wild Thing

Title: Starfleet's Finest

Authors: Sita/T'eyla

AN: Thanks to TLI, Exploded Pen and KaliedescopeCat who reviewed Chapter 4 and to everyone who reviewed so far. Here's the last part, hope you like it, please r&r (one more time :-) )!

____________

#5 Wild Thing

Hoshi Sato checked her reflection in the bus window and frowned. Somehow it didn't look right. Although she had tried to make it look like it did on all those women in the magazines, it still looked strange on her. Maybe she had taken to much eyeshadow, after all. Rummaging through her school bag she dug out her Mom's mascara and unscrewed the top. Using the bus window as a mirror, she carefully began to apply the green mascara to her lashes when suddenly the bus hit a bump in the road.

"Ouch!" She'd poked herself in the eye and when she checked her reflection again, there was a green smudge on her cheek and her eye was red, the mascara smeared everywhere.

"Aw, shit." Hoshi took a kleenex out of her schoolbag and tried to rub the mascara off her cheek, only managing to spread it even further on her face. She looked at her reflection in the window again and grimaced.

Great, Hoshi, she thought. Now you look like a zombie.

Once more she tried to restore her make-up, but the kleenex dissolved in her hand and she gave up in frustration. Stuffing the mascara back into her schoolbag she leaned back in her seat and miserably stared out of the window, trying to ignore her greenish reflection.

She hated the school bus. When she'd still been at her old school, she'd never had to go by bus, the school had only been a few minutes away from her home. And there had been people she could talk to on the way to school, people who had other things to talk about than who had the most expensive clothes, the fanciest hairdo or the newest Armani purse. People who didn't come to school in their own limousine driven by their personal chauffeur. Normal people.

Hoshi remembered how happy she'd been half a year ago when she'd won the scholarship to the best private language school of the state. Her parents had been so proud when the principal herself had called them at home, telling them their daughter had won the state contest. She'd known she would have to leave all her friends when she went to that new school, but then she hadn't really thought about that, and her parents wouldn't have allowed her to refuse anyway. Now she just wished she never had won that scholarship at all. On her first day in the new school not one of the girls had talked to her; they had stared, sniggering behind her back and Hoshi had heard them saying things like: "Just look at those sneakers she's wearing!" and "Oh my God, the shirt - I bet she bought it second-hand!"

Now it was her third week already and if anything, it had only gotten worse. She'd had a lot of friends at her old school, but these snobby bitches at the private school were just horrible, always dolled up like mannequins and looking down their noses on everybody who didn't get a pedicure twice a week. This morning Hoshi had taken a good look at herself in the bathroom mirror and had come to a decision. It couldn't hurt to try, she'd thought.

She'd been wrong, it seemed. Her eye was still red, burning like hell where she'd poked it and she couldn't even wipe the tears off because that would smear the carefully applied eyeliner.

The bus stopped and Hoshi realized they were already there. Trying not to think of how she looked, she picked up her schoolbag and got off the bus. Together with the few other students who came by bus she crossed the parking lot. As always, there were small groups of girls standing together in front of the entrance and when she passed by she heard them giggling. Deliberately not looking at them Hoshi walked down the hallway heading towards her classroom. Checking her timetable she sighed. Two hours German class. Well, it was better than math or physics, but generally Hoshi preferred French.

Just as she entered the classroom, the bell rang, but there were only a few students here yet. Hoshi sat down at her table in the front, taking out her books. As she dug for her pen in her schoolbag she heard the voice of Mrs.Schönwälder outside in the hallway.

"Come on, girls, class has already started! Let's move it!"

The door opened and seven or eight girls came in, followed by Mrs. Schönwälder who glanced at the clock over the blackboard, a sour look on her face. Hoshi looked over the crowd. Someone was missing. Hoshi was already getting her hopes up, but no, there she was - Patricia Walther, the leader of the gang. As always, she was the last one to sit down, a bored look on her face which made it clear what a waste of time she considered this to be. Patricia was thirteen, a year older than most of the girls, and ever since she had sauntered into the classroom on the first day of school she'd had the class under her thumb. She was always surrounded by a bunch of crownies who giggled at her jokes, admired her new outfit and listened to her stories. Most of the time she talked about another car, villa or private jet her father had bought, or about her latest shopping trip to Paris. Sometimes she would stop her recital of her family's latest acquisitions to make snide remarks about people who didn't own three hundred pairs of shoes and who were actually paying attention in class. Needless to say, Hoshi hated her.

"_Guten Morgen, Kinder._ Please take out your books; page 35." Mrs. Schönwälder's voice still sounded a little gruff. When she saw that half of the students didn't have their books with them, her frown deepened.

"Let's repeat the text. Who can give a summary of the last paragraph?"

Mrs. Schönwälder picked one of the students in the last row, who quickly put away the magazine she'd been reading under the table and frantically leafed through her textbook. As the girl answered, stumbling over the words of the unfamiliar language, Hoshi sighed. She scanned through the paragraph and out of boredom began to translate the simple sentences into French. After the third sentence Mrs. Schönwälder's voice got her attention again.

"Well, Janine, next time read the text at home, and not five minutes before class starts. All right, let's turn the page. Who can translate the following: _'Es liegt auf der Hand'_?"

Mrs. Schönwälder looked over the class and her eyes fell on Patricia who was talking to her neighbour, not bothering to keep her voice down.

"Patricia, maybe you want to try? _'Es liegt auf der Hand'_, in English, please."

Patricia gracefully crossed her legs. "Um... that would be... 'It lies on the hand'."

A few students snorted and Hoshi rolled her eyes. Of course Patricia wouldn't know the expression, since it had been in the vocabulary for today and after all, only freaks and losers did their homework. Mrs. Schönwälder pressed her lips together.

"Maybe you should spend less time in front of the mirror and more time on your homework. Patricia Walthers. All right, is there somebody who *did* their homework? What about you, Hoshi?"

Hoshi felt a blush creeping up her face. Because she'd won that scholarship, most of the teachers thought she was some kind of genius and always resorted to her as a last help when nobody else knew the answer. The problem was, usually Hoshi did know the answer. She cleared her throat.

"_'Es liegt auf der Hand'_ means 'It's obvious'."

For the first time this morning Mrs. Schönwälder smiled. "That's right, Hoshi. _'Es liegt auf der Hand'_ is a German expression; literally translated it does mean 'It lies on the hand', but the actual meaning is, like Hoshi said, 'It's obvious'. _Es liegt auf der Hand_ that many of you need to study harder."

Mrs. Schönwälder smiled thinly and Hoshi rolled her eyes.

German humor strikes again, she thought and sneaked a glance at the clock. Another ninety minutes to go.

Finally, class was over and the girls filed out of the room. Hoshi put her book away and picking up her school bag she followed the others, heading for the cafeteria. As she passed a window she quickly checked her reflection. Her cheek was still green and despite all her efforts there was a smudge of eyeliner under her left eye now as well. Hoping no one would notice, Hoshi got in line, digging in her schoolbag for her purse. She got herself a strawberry milkshake and a doughnut and picking up her tray she went looking for an empty table. There was one near the window, and Hoshi sat down, careful not to spill any of the milkshake as she put down her tray. Staring out at the bright blue summer sky she absentmindedly took a sip of her drink. After a few minutes she heard subdued giggling behind her back. With a sense of foreboding she turned around and looked into the face of Patricia Walthers, who stood there, hands on her hips, surrounded by her fanclub who were leering expectantly. Hoshi swallowed, but decided she wouldn't back down this time.

"What do you want, Walthers?"

Patricia raised one perfectly pencilled eyebrow. "Oh, Sato, not busy doing your homework for next class? But of course you don't need to, you did it all at home already, didn't you?"

The crowd sniggered. Hoshi felt anger rising up in her stomach.

"What business is this of yours?" she said, her voice sounding more aggressive than she'd intended it to.

"A little cranky this morning, are we? What's wrong? Did you get less than a hundred percent for your brilliant translation in German class?" Patricia made a show of looking Hoshi up and down. "But no, I know what's eating you. I'd be pissed off too if I was running around looking like that. What were you trying to do, paint a Picasso on your face?"

Hoshi got up. "Get lost, Walthers."

Patricia snorted. "Why on earth did you combine red eyeshadow with green mascara, anyway? You look like a Vulcan with a headcold."

Patricia's friends giggled and Hoshi felt herself blush, which made her even more furious.

"Why do you believe I care what you think? You're so dumb you can't even spell your name right."

Although she was still smiling derisively, something like anger crossed Patricia's face.

"You know, it's *obvious* that today was the first time you ever put some makeup on. Nice try, Sato, but I think you're fighting a losing battle there."

Without thinking, Hoshi grabbed her milkshake and the next moment it was spattered all over Patricia's pink tank top. Patricia let out a horrified shriek and jumped back, crashing into one of her friends who were all staring at Hoshi in shock.

"You damn freak, you ruined my shirt!" Her face red and dripping with milkshake Patricia advanced on Hoshi who stood paralyzed, unable to believe what she'd just done. That moment someone came up from behind and grabbed Patricia by the arm.

"Walthers! Sato! What's going on here?" Mrs. Schönwälder stared in disbelief at Patricia's disarranged state. With her free hand Patricia pointed at Hoshi.

"She spilled her milkshake all over me!" she wailed. Mrs. Schönwälder's eyes fell on the empty plastic cup in Hoshi's hand.

"Sato! What on earth were you thinking? You, of all people!"

Hoshi swallowed. "I-"

"You two come with me, we are going to talk to the principal about this!"

With her other hand Mrs. Schönwälder grabbed Hoshi's arm and off they went. All the way to the principal's office she ranted on about "two *girls*, for God's sake!" picking a fight, but Hoshi didn't really listen. She was in shock. Her third week and she was already being taken to the principal, which had never happened to her before in her whole life. What if she got expelled? Her parents would be so disappointed.

When they arrived at the office, Mrs. Schönwälder let go of them and knocked at the door.

"Come in," said a deep voice behind the door and Hoshi felt her insides contract.

Fifteen minutes later Hoshi followed a disgruntled Mrs. Schönwälder out of the principal's office, feeling rather shaky. It hadn't been that bad after all. Mr. Roberts had listened to their story and Hoshi had gotten the impression he'd found it quite amusing, judging from the way he'd fought to keep a straight face most of the time. When he had asked her why she had attacked her classmate with a milkshake, Hoshi hadn't really known what to say, mumbling something about how sorry she was. Patricia hadn't said anything at all, tearfully fishing pieces of strawberry out of her bra. Not really knowing what to do with them, Mr. Roberts had suggested they should help cleaning the cafeteria after lunch for one week and after they'd promised it wouldn't happen again he had dismissed them.

Mrs. Schönwälder closed the door of the office behind them and turned around.

"I'm very disappointed in both of you. If something like this ever happens again, I'm going to see to it that you won't get off that easily." She looked as if she was going to add something more, but then she just gave them a last piercing look and turned to go.

Patricia glared at Hoshi. "I'm so going to get you for this, Sato," she hissed, keeping her voice down so Mrs. Schönwälder wouldn't hear her.

Hoshi looked at her and suddenly she had to grin. The oh-so-glamorous Patricia Walthers looked really funny with strawberry slime all over her pink expensive shirt.

"Quit bitching, Walthers, that strawberry stuff doesn't even look that bad on you."

Without waiting for an answer, Hoshi turned around and headed down the hallway. Back in the cafeteria she picked up her schoolbag and was on her way to the door when she heard someone calling her name. Looking back she saw Janine, one of her classmates, coming towards her. To Hoshi's surprise she was grinning all over her face.

"What did Mr. Roberts say?" she asked. Hoshi shrugged.

"Not much. Mrs. Schönwälder was quite pissed off, though."

Janine rolled her eyes. "I bet. I can't stand that woman, anyway." She smiled. "I think it was so cool, Walthers all soaked with milkshake. She was asking for it for some time now."

Hoshi felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe." She looked at Janine. "What's your next class?"

Janine checked on her timetable. "French."

"Mine too. Well, we'd better get going."

Together they went down the hallway and Hoshi felt there was a chance she might survive the day, after all.

____

Note: Freaking out at the right moment can certainly improve your day.


End file.
